


The Pink Pearl

by Smuttysmutwriter



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Crime, Dwarven Culture, Erebor never fell AU, M/M, Multi, Murder Mystery, Prostitution, Romance, Serial Killers, Sex Work, prostitute!Dori
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-09 15:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/775827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smuttysmutwriter/pseuds/Smuttysmutwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Smaug never attacked Erebor, Ori is a bored young scribe looking for a little excitement.  He finds it in Dwalin, Captain of the Guard. </p>
<p> Things get complicated when Dwalin's investigation of a series of grisly murders of prostitutes leads him to the Pink Pearl, the brothel Dori runs and works out of...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Forges

**Author's Note:**

> You may recognize this first chapter as being one of the days from my 'Week of Orwal' series. I was asked in comments if I could continue this and I wanted to, I just wasn't sure if the one shot of assertive!Ori and Dwalin sex could carry a whole fic. I had a think about it and eventually came up with this. 
> 
> A lot of the ideas for prostitute!Dori, and the way prostitution works in Dwaven society have been heavily influenced by the fic 'Not Going Back'. I cannot pimp (har har) that fic enough, it's amazing.

Ori doesn’t have many opportunities to head down to the great bellows and forges of Erebor, but every time he does he relishes the chance.

Usually he is sent by his Master to deliver something, a carefully handwritten invoice for some complex piece of work or perhaps a note of thanks commissioned by one of the lords or ladies. Sometimes he heads down on a personal matter, usually bringing Dori down some lunch if he is spending his day working at the forges. Those trips are less fun though, Dori never gives his younger brother a proper chance to look.

That is why Ori finds himself looking for any excuse to visit the forges. They are always hot, lit with orange glow of burning embers, and all the finest examples of dwarrowhood which can be found under the Lonely Mountain are to be seen down there, stripped to the waist and sweat falling off their bodies in rivers as they force the heavy metals they work into shape. Their huge arms working, the muscles on their backs rippling, stopping occasionally to move sweat soaked hair off their necks…

And Ori was only looking (most of the time), he swore! He didn’t know why Dori got in such a flap about the whole thing. I mean, honestly!

Today he has a few stops, dropping off a few days invoices to different smiths for them to pass on to their clients. He stops off first at old Master Hokbah’s shop, giggling at his jokes (the same ones he tells every week) and acting just scandalized enough when the old dwarrow pinches his bottom, heading off with payment and a smack to Hokbah’s hand. He’s a nice old chap, and completely harmless. Ori feels he’s doing a bit of a public service, letting him flirt and feel like he’s young again, not to mention he’s a very good client of Ori’s Master and has been for many years.

Next it’s on to Master Lor’s shop. A dwarrow of middling age but still very good looking (If Ori is honest with himself, he finds he likes a dwarrow of middle age best, they just have the right amount of substance), mores the tragedy though as Master Lor has been happily married for close to fifty years. Still, there is no harm done in looking and Lor is always happy to have a chat.

Then it’s on to Masters Ret and Rhir, brothers who run a shop together and are both blessed with the most amazing biceps. Ori can barely span his hands around them, and the brothers have let him try many times.

Then onto the public anvils and fires (though Ori has finished his work and has no real reason to be there), which are set up for any dwarrow to hire on a day by day basis for a small fee . This is where the apprentices and hobby smiths work, or those too young to afford their own shops yet. Ori has been down to the forges enough to recognize most of the regulars who work there but today the room is mostly empty, the only dwarf working there someone new…

Someone perfect…

Oh, it’s like Ori dreamed him! He’s wonderfully tall, arms like tree trunks and just covered in thick black tattoos. The stranger turns a little and Ori can see he has two huge axes tattooed into his broad back. Ori’s toes curl inside his boots. Oh please Mahal, let this one be single.

Ori smooths a hand over his hair, sets his face into his trademark look of confusion and vulnerability and shuffles closer to the large dwarrow, making sure to clutch his papers   
and bag close to his chest.

“E-excuse me sir, I was wondering if you’d be able to help me. I don’t come down here often and I think I’ve gotten a bit lost…”

~*~*~

No more than thirty minutes later Ori finds himself shoved against the thick stone wall of a convenient alcove, his pants forgotten on the ground and his legs wrapped around Mister Dwalin’s thick trunk.

He groans as Dwalin squeezes his buttocks, kneading the skin as he slams into Ori’s body again and again. Ori kicks at him with his ankles, spurning him on.

He’s surprised when Dwalin leans in to kiss him, first on the mouth then moving down to suck a red mark on Ori’s neck. Ooooh, that won’t do! Dori’ll see that and then there’ll be all sorts of disapproving huffing.

Ori grabs Dwalin’s head and pulls it up, pressing their mouths together again. When Dwalin pulls away he buries his face in Ori’s neck, moaning what a lovely, tight little fuck he is.

That’s all it takes for Ori to come, moaning and kicking and grabbing at Dwalin’s hair. Dwalin isn’t far behind, he slams into Ori a few more times then groans loudly, leaning all his weight against Ori on the wall. Oh yes…oh that’s good.

Eventually Dwalin lets Ori down. The young scribe starts to lean over to pick up his unders and pants but is stopped by Dwalin’s arm bracing against the wall, trapping him in place.

“Will I see ya again?” he rumbles, brushing one of Ori’s braids behind his ear.

“I dunno,” Ori slips under the outstretched arm, “You come down to the forges a bit more and you might…”

Dwalin makes a contemplative noise, “Ah, that too bad, lad. I was only down to make me brother a name day gift, it’s the one day a year I do come down. Bein’ a guardsman takes up a lot o’ me time…”

“You’re a city guard?”

“Ye could say that. I’m head of the city guard.”

Ohhhh, that Mister Dwalin. Ori had thought the name sounded familiar. Ori runs an appreciative eye over Dwalin again, he had always liked those guard’s uniforms.

If Ori remembers correctly, it was usually one of the younger scribes who made the deliveries to the Guardhouse. It was a bit out of the way, and a long walk, no-one really liked to do the work…

He was sure whoever he offered to do the job for would be ever so grateful…


	2. Peach Tree Row

“Doriiii…I’m ho-ome!” 

Ori toed off his boots at the door, hung up his coat and started to remove his scarf…but then thought better of it as Dori came into the entrance hall, remembering Dwalin sucking at his neck that afternoon. 

“Afternoon Ori love,” Dori’s hair was half done for work, one side intricately plaited, the other hanging loose, “How was work today?”

“Usual sort of thing. Master Hedor’s given me a new project, it’s a big one.”

“Oh aye?” Dori wandered back into the kitchen, plaiting as he went, a mithril hairpin poking out of his mouth.

“It’s another restoration; he wants me to touch up a late Second Age retelling of the fall of Mount Gundabad.”

“That sounds like a big job,” Dori held a braid in place with one hand and stirred a pot on the stove with another. 

“It will be. I’ve got a lot ‘o research I want to do before I make a start. A lot of the illustrations are faded, I want the colours to be period accurate,” Ori picked an apple out of a basket on the kitchen table and took a bite. 

“That’s nice love. Now, sorry to do this to you twice in one week but you’ll have to finish dinner off yourself. Gurret and Honir are both still out with the sniffles and things are always busy this time of year. It’s just a stew, give it another hour on the stove there and it should be ready.”

Dori bustled out of the kitchen, sliding the mithril pin into his hair. Ori rolled his eyes, he was 78, he was perfectly capable of finishing up a stew and serving himself dinner. Honestly, Dori still treated him like he was in his forties sometimes!

“Is Nori here for dinner tonight?” Ori yelled down the hall in the direction of Dori’s bedroom. 

“Ah…I don’t think so love.” The sound of opening draws and the slam of the wardrobe door came from inside Dori’s room, “You know what he’s like after his big new promotion, it’s just work, work, work. I swear, that brother of yours needs to remember he’s got a family as well.”

Ori snorted, “He’s your brother too, Dori.”

“Of course he is, and that’s why he needs to make more of an effort to come home for dinner. Ori, be a dear, come do up these last buttons for me.”

Ori put down his apple and went into Dori’s bedroom to help him finish getting dressed for work. He stared at the line of tiny mother of pearl buttons which went all the way down Dori’s back, all of them smaller than the fingernail of his pinkie and sighed. 

“You really need to hire a dresser Dori.”

“Why should I spend all that money when you’re here for free?”

“All of the others have dressers…”

“Pah, lazy children, the lot of them! Mam never needed a dresser.” His hands now free from having to button his tunic, Dori turned his attention back to his hair, pinning the last plait in place then attaching his prized mithril clips, sliding two heavy pearls through the holes in the lobes of his ears, a stack of tinkling bracelets over each wrist. 

Ori sighed internally this time and kept working at the buttons. When he’d been a child he’d loved this, being asked to help Mam, and eventually Dori, get dressed. He’d felt so special, being allowed this peek into the secret world of grownups and their grownup work. He loved the feel of the luxurious silk and velvet siding under his fingers, the scent of their perfume like a haze in the air. Mam would put bracelets on his wrists and kiss his hands, calling him her ‘clever little fellow’ and always tucking him into bed before she left for the night. 

Those days were many years ago, and yet here Ori still was, just a different set of buttons on a different silk tunic, but a very familiar back. And Dori wondered why Ori was mad about every big dwarrow with a bit of excitement about them…

He finished the last button and patted Dori on the back to tell him he was done. Dori stood and looked at himself in his dressing mirror.

“Ah, that’s perfect. Thank you love. Now, don’t forget about that stew and don’t stay up too late, you’ve got work tomorrow.”

“Yes Dori,” Ori rolled his eyes but couldn’t help but smile as Dori kissed him on the cheek. 

“And take that scarf off, Mam didn’t raise you in a barn did she?”

“No Dori.” Ori helped Dori put on his thick overcoat over his work clothes, which were far too thin for the outdoors. 

“Alright then. Have a good night, I’ll be home for breakfast.”

“Good night Dori.” 

Ori waved from the door and watched Dori as he walked down the street, off to the brothel their Mother had owned, the one she had built up from a one room operation to the whorehouse of choice for nobles and royals, the one Dori now ran and still worked out of, the Pink Pearl. 

The Pearl had been the lifeblood of the Brother’s Ri, an odd bunch all things considered, which was perhaps to be expected considering the three of them didn’t share a father. A fussy whore, a ‘civil servant’ who was painfully obtuse about the exact nature of his job, and an apprentice scribe who couldn’t keep his hands off handsome guards. 

Ori closed the door behind him and finally unwound his scarf, going into Dori’s bedroom to look at his neck in the mirror. Thank goodness…the mark Dwalin had left was smaller than he’d first thought, it would be gone by tomorrow morning and, if it wasn’t, he could easily pass it off as a midge bite. 

Ori unpacked his satchel from where he had thrown it over a chair as he came in, pulling out the books on Second Age art he had borrowed from the library. He stirred the stew and stoked the fire, before settling down at the kitchen table to do a little reading. He found it hard to concentrate though…his mind returning over and over to a pair of strong tattooed hands and a low voice growling filth into his ear.

Ori rested his chin on his hand, thinking of all the ways he could arrange a trip to the guardhouse tomorrow, try and see Dwalin again. Put a little excitement into his life…

~*~*~

Dwalin had rather been hoping to head off early that night, it was Balin’s nameday after all, there was a banquet being held, Prince Thorin and even King Thrain being rumoured to be in attendance. He’d wanted a chance to get home, have a bath, try to wrap his present properly before the festivities begun, such hopes had been dashed just as he was putting his coat on to leave.

“Captain…” Kurik, one of Dwalin’s lieutenants poked her head around the door, “I know ye got a big dinner tonight, but ye wanted me to let ye know if…if there was another.”

Dwalin paused, closing his eyes for a moment and taking a breath. He didn’t stop pulling on his coat over his left arm. He felt rather than saw Kurik shift uncomfortably in her spot.

“I’m sorry Captain, you head off. I’m sure we can handle things, I’ll make sure there’s a full report on yer desk first thing…”

Dwalin turned to face his lieutenant and shook his head, “Nah, Balin won’t care if I show up in me work clothes. Take me to where they found him…”

Not too much later, Dwalin found himself in a dirty alley off Peach Blossom Row, an innocent name for a not so innocent part of town. He looked down at what was left of a young prostitute, the poor lad probably not much more than 95. Dwalin could see where the lad applied lye to his hair to lighten it from mouse brown to blonde. He was pretty. They were all pretty. 

Just like the others he’d been stabbed, beaten, strangled, and then laid behind the trash somewhere out of the way. Laid, not dumped, laid out carefully behind the rubbish with a blanket tucked gently under his chin. Like all the others his face hadn’t been touched, not a single black eye or loose tooth to be seen, a marked contrast to the rest of the poor creature’s body, his hair taken out of its prostitute’s braids, brushed and arranged loosely like a maiden’s. 

At Dwalin’s gesture one of the other guards lifted the sheet covering the lad. He heard Kurik swear behind him and walk away. Dwalin only looked as long as he had to, long enough to confirm this was the same killer as the one who had done the lad from two weeks ago, and before that the lass six months before that. He knelt down and turned over the lad’s wrist, pushing up the pile of gaudy bangles, looking at a thin silver chain around the lad’s wrist with a single charm, a tiny axe. 

Dwalin undid the chain and held it in front of his face, squinting at the charm. A rune was carved into it: ‘son’. Dwalin blinked and laid the chain back down over the lifeless wrist, standing back up. Someone loved this lad. Someone was home, waiting for him to come back after a day’s work…

He nodded and the sheet went down again, he spat the bile in his mouth out and walked over to where Kurik was taking some deep breaths at the start of the alley. 

“Get Murr down here, I want one of his sketches done up, fast as possible. I want everyone on duty takin’ either a sketch or the lad’s description to every street walker in this part o’ town. Take it to tha brothels as well, he looks too skinny ta be workin’ a house but we could get lucky. I want that boy’s name by the time I’m in tomorrow, understood?”

Kurik just nodded, looking very pale, “Aye sir, understood.”


	3. The Floating District

All in all, Balin had had a very satisfactory name day. A day off from the Court, a banquet held in his honour with all his closest friends, one of the best parties of the year according to some, a fine meal and so many gifts they had covered the table set up for them in the banquet hall. There had been singing and dancing and revelry and as midnight neared the party was still going strong, and yet Balin was making his excuses to those he was closest to and sneaking quietly out the back entrance of the banquet hall. 

From there it was only a short walk to Erebor’s most exclusive Floating District, his destination right at its heart, the Pink Pearl. Really, Balin couldn’t think of a better end to his name day than to spend the night of it in the arms of his favourite whore. 

Balin walked through the carved oaken doors beneath the low hanging blue lanterns, bowing his head to the burly old Firebeard who guarded the door, keeping the riff raff and trouble makers out. The guard bowed his head in return, recognizing Lord Balin instantly, pulling the diaphanous curtain aside to let him into the heart of the Pearl. 

“Oh Lord Balin! Many good wishes on your name day!” Torof, a young lad with thick chestnut coloured hair, dressed in flowing sea green silk appeared at Balin’s side, giving a charming smile and wrapping his arm through Balin’s. 

“Many thanks, Torof lad. Now, is that a little hint of silver I see in your hair there?”

Torof giggled and nodded his head, “You noticed! I passed the tests last week! Though I’m not sure the silver suits me as well as the bronze used too..”

“I think it suits you very well,” Balin patted the boy’s arm, “Goodness me, you’re making me feel old. I remember when you were still wearing tin…”

“Oh Lord Balin, you’re not old.”

Balin chuckled, “I don’t know what else you’d call 207, lad. Is Dori ready?”

“He’s waiting of you in his room. Just ring the bell.”

“Many thanks.”

Torof kept a grip on Balin’s arm a moment longer, giving him a cheeky smile, “Now you won’t try and sneak out later without saying goodbye will you?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it lad.”

Balin walked up the stairs to Dori’s chamber, nodding to a Guild Leader he vaguely recognised coming down the opposite direction on the arm of a handsome blonde. He walked through the familiar halls until he came to the door he knew well, the one with the tiny mithril bell hanging over the lintel. He tapped his index finger against it, hearing its musical chime ring out. 

Dori never made him wait. The door opened and there behind it stood (in Balin’s opinion at least) the most beautiful courtesan in all of Erebor, dressed in the deep red he favoured and giving Balin a gentle smile. 

“Good evening Lord Balin.”

“Dori...” Balin bowed his head, unable to stop himself from licking his lips. 

“Please, come in. Everything’s ready for you.”

~*~*~

A full night with Dori was more than just sex (though the sex was very good), it was an _experience_. An experience Balin was willing to pay a considerable amount of money for. Sometimes, when Balin was only looking for a quick tumble, a little stress relief, he would book an hour or two; a drink or two downstairs, a rough fuck, a short rest after, sometimes that was enough. 

Some nights though, like tonight, after a week spent planning a huge party, Balin needed something more. 

It would start with a bath. Dori’s room was the only room in the Pearl with a small bathing chamber adjacent to it. A footed bath was inside, always filled with steaming hot water and sweet scented oils which Balin would ease himself into after undressing. Dori would bring him tea, or maybe something to drink if that was what he wanted, and would massage his shoulders and arms. Sometimes Balin wanted to talk, sometimes he didn’t, always Dori’s comforting presence was behind him, his strong hands working the tension out of Balin’s body.

Once Balin was out Dori would hand him a soft towel to dry himself. Dori would comb out Balin’s beard, an intimate act, Balin’s hands starting to wander. By the time Dori came to undressing himself Balin was usually half panting for him. 

It was only after all this they finally fell into bed, Balin sometimes pinning Dori’s wrists to the sheets, sometimes grabbing his head and making the lovely courtesan suck his cock. Tonight though, Balin wanted Dori atop him, wanted to lay back and watch Dori’s body move. 

Dori was, as always, very accommodating. 

Balin groaned out long as he felt Dori clench around him, that tight, almost burning, heat around his cock. He grabbed the thick flesh of Dori’s hips as the other rocked back and forth. Dori’s earrings swung back and forth, the chiming sounds of them mixing in with his panting and Balin’s groans. 

Balin’s back arched, trying to push himself even deeper inside, forcing a gasp out of Dori’s mouth. He was close, Durin’s beard he was close, he’d been thinking about this all day. 

“Dori…oh Mahal…Dori…”

The Courtesan’s name was on Balin’s lips when he came, groaning it out long and low, leaving marks from his fingers on Dori’s hips. He melted back into his bed, running his hands up and down Dori’s sides but holding him tight when Dori started to move. 

“Not yet…you’re not done yet…”

A smile tugged at Dori’s mouth as Balin’s hand closed around his cock and started to stroke him. Very few of his clients cared if he reached orgasm, with some he preferred not to, but Balin was an old client, someone he would almost say he was fond of, and he knew the Lord enjoyed watching him.

“You are wicked my Lord.”

“I do try.”

Later, when Dori lay on the bed at Balin’s side, resting his eyes, and not just a little grateful that Balin had booked him the full night so he didn’t have to be getting up for a while, he felt the Lord shift beside him.

“You know it’s my name day today, Dori…or at least it was yesterday.”

Dori smiled and didn’t open his eyes. There he was, and to think Dori had almost thought Balin might have forgotten this year.

“You’re going to ask me again, aren’t you?”

“Did you doubt me?”

“Mmm, perhaps for a moment…”

“I’m horrified,” Balin lent in and kissed Dori’s collarbone. He paused for a moment before asking the question, the same one he asked every year on his name day, “Be mine Dori.”

“Oh Lord Balin…” Dori gave a sigh. He had to admire his persistence. Balin had been asking the same question, for Dori to become his personal Companion, his concubine, since they were both much younger dwarrows. 

In earlier days, Dori had almost considered it. It was a tempting offer, he would never have to think of paying bills, all the stress of running the Pearl would be a memory, there would be only one Lord to service and of all the Lords Dori knew, Balin was certainly one of the kinder and more handsome of them. 

In those days though he did not just have himself to think of, Nori and Ori were both still young, Nori unable to work as he studied for the civil service exams (which were not cheap to take, oh no) and Ori still in short pants and wearing his little leather cap. Those had been leaner years, the Pearl heavily in debt when Mam had just bought the building they worked out of, its reputation among the wealthy not yet cemented. There had been times they couldn’t pay for a guard for the door, and Dori’s strength had to be used to keep troublesome clients away from the other lads. At that time they could not afford to lose the income he bought in. 

Mam had counselled against Dori accepting Balin’s offer as well. She’d seen too many young prostitutes agreeing to a life of Companionship, giving up any rank they had earned, enjoying a few years of security and leisure, some even performing the functions of a Lord’s wife or husband, only for them to be cast aside when the noble in question tired of them, having to start working again on the streets, clips of tin in their hair. 

“If it’s what you truly want my love, I won’t stand in your way,” she’d said, stroking the back of her hand down Dori’s cheek, “But love’s a fickle thing and you’re not gonna be his husband, make no mistake about that. If he tired of you, if he decided to throw you out one morning, there’d be no third of his wealth assigned to you as a spouse would get.”

So Dori had said no then, and no the next year when Balin had asked again, and no every year up until tonight. Things had changed over the years, working hard Dori and his mother had paid off the mortgage on the Pearl and on the family home, Nori was now rising up the ranks in government service, Ori had finished his apprenticeship last summer and was a junior scribe, and yet Dori already knew his answer would again be no. 

There were other responsibilities now, a house full of young lads who relied on him to guide them, to teach them, to protect them from the more shady operations in the Floating District. He couldn’t just close the Pearl and abandon them! Gurret had a sick mother he cared for, Toruf eight siblings and no parents and he the only one old enough to work, Reknar was a runaway with nowhere else to go, Dori didn’t know Honir’s story but the fact he refused to say anything about his past told him everything he needed to know! 

Nori always complained that Dori mothered everyone around him. Dori had always replied that some people were in need a bit of mothering, which was usually followed by Dori trying to fix Nori’s hair or make him put on a cardigan. Dori never understood why Nori acted as if it was a bad thing, Mahal, in all his wisdom, simply crafted some dwarrows to care more than others did. 

Dori opened his eyes and smoothed a hand down Balin’s beard, giving him a small smile.

“Same answer then?” Balin asked.

Dori nodded, “I’m afraid so.”

Balin chuckled and lay back down on the bed, “You cannot blame a dwarrow for trying.”


	4. The Morgue

Dwalin rubbed a hand over his forehead and looked down at the three sketches in front of him, spread out over his desk. Three young faces, three lives violently extinguished…

A testament to Kurik’s dedication, Dwalin had walked in to his office that morning to find she’d identified the boy from last night. Not only that, she’d dug up his file out of the archives and had it placed in the centre of Dwalin’s desk. 

Rafra, son of Nefra, age 81. A mother’s son. The first notes on his file were mentions from over fifty years ago, reports from teachers of a particularly skinny child who had trouble concentrating in lessons, bruises on his arms. Notes of attendance at the home after reports of fighting inside between Nefra and the dwarrow she was living with. Nothing for years, then warnings for loitering, a fine for working as a prostitute without paying Guild dues, a hold for a day for fighting six months ago, another fine for incorrect Clipping from the Guild…then this. 

Dwalin flicked through the file again. Three and a quarter pages, was that all a life boiled down to? Was that all that was left of a lad who dyed his hair blonde and wore the charm his mother had carved for him with her own hands everywhere he went?

What made it worse, was that of the three victims this was by far the most complete file. The second victim, Hamar, son of Tamat, had only one notation, when he had made a complaint against a clingy client over two years ago. They were still waiting for Hamar’s file from the Guild to be released. Dwalin cringed thinking of the further application he’d have to make for Rafra’s Guild papers (forms 37, 37A, 615 and 22B-1, in triplicate, if you please). But even with that, all Dwalin would have was the lads’ due payments, their ranks, any special training they’d received…probably useless in the end, but Dwalin would take anything at this point. 

As for the lass…they didn’t even have a name for her yet. Two months…two months of papering the Floating Districts with sketches of her face, two months asking every street walker and brothel owner if they knew her, two months of ‘information requests’ with the Guild (the forms for that were _particularly_ torturous) and still they didn’t even have her name. It shouldn’t be this hard to find a woman working as a whore, woman were rare enough under the Mountain, women who worked the Floating Districts even rarer, it had only been in the last 400 years that the ban on such had been lifted, less than 200 since the Whore’s Guild had allowed them to join their ranks. 

Dwalin could count on one hand the number dwarrow-dam prostitutes he’s seen, even after all his years as a Guard. They tended to work in the brothels rather than on the streets and their shelf life as prostitutes wasn’t long, they usually weren’t lifers. After a year or two if they weren’t married, the vast majority of dwarrows and their families being willing to overlook a few years of ‘Guild Work’ (as it was called in polite circles) for the rare chance of a wife and heirs for the family name, they usually moved into Companion work for the old and stupidly wealthy. 

In fact, if it weren’t for the single bronze clip in the girl’s pocket, her murderer probably having missed it, Dwalin wouldn’t have even thought she was a prostitute. He’d been considering that the clip might have been a false lead, maybe even left there by the killer to lead him astray, until two weeks ago when Hamar had been found behind the trash at the back door of a pub on Eleventh Avenue, just on the edge of the Northern Floating District. Same injuries, same sheet tucked up to his neck, his hair pulled out of its clips just as hers had been. Same killer. 

Dwalin heaved a sigh and flicked Rafra’s file closed, sliding the sketch of his young face inside it. He took a sip of his coffee, putting off the inevitable; he’d have to leave soon to go meet with his cousin Oin and see what could be gleaned from the lad’s body. Dwalin wasn’t looking forward to it, not just because he hated the morgue but because spending the morning yelling his questions at Oin three times (on average) until Oin actually heard him was very low on Dwalin’s list of ‘fun ways to spend his morning.’

There was a tap on his office door and Dwalin looked up, it couldn’t be time to go just yet (at least let him finish his coffee…). 

“What is it?” he barked, perhaps a little more harshly than he intended.

“Captain,” Murr poked his head around the door, “There’s someone from the Scrivener Hall here to see you. Says he’s here to take some dictation…”

Dwalin frowned. He hadn’t sent for a scribe, certainly not one to take something as simple as dictation, he wrote out most of his correspondence himself for one thing. 

“He says he spoke to you yesterday at the forges…”

Oh! That scribe! A corner of Dwalin’s mouth twitched, his morning starting to look up.

“Ah yes…send him right in.”

A smirk grew on Dwalin’s face as the young scribe slid past Murr into the room. He was holding his satchel close to his chest, looking up at Dwalin with those lovely brown eyes. The ‘lost wee lamb’ act dropped as soon as Murr closed the door, the lad laid his satchel down on his chair and approached Dwalin’s desk. He smiled. 

“I got a bone to pick with you,” he said, leaning against Dwalin’s desk. 

“Oh aye, laddie?”

“Mmm,” Ori nodded and unwound the knitted scarf from around his neck. He moved closer and tilted his head to the side. Dwalin saw a mark on the scribe’s neck, the red already faded to a faint purple bruise. He licked his lips, images of his lips on that neck coming back to him, the taste of the lad’s skin, the feeling of his cock buried so far inside him…

“See that. You’re just lucky my older brother works nights and was late in this morning otherwise we both would have been in a whole lot o’ strife.”

“Really? He a troublemaker your brother…?” Dwalin took Ori’s hand, drawing him closer, “Likes to start fights when someone offers to buy you a drink?”

Ori shrugged, letting Dwalin draw him in closer, “Something like that.”

Dwalin slid his arm around Ori’s waist, the young lad now standing between his spread legs on the chair and running one finger through Dwalin’s thick dark beard. 

“Got a few minutes for me to take that dictation for you?” Ori gave a sly smile. 

Dwalin wished he could say yes. In his mind’s eye he saw the scribe on his back on his desk, all the files and forms on the floor, naked from the waist down and his legs over Dwalin’s shoulders, moaning and squealing and biting his bottom lip…

“There’s nothing I want more lad but I gotta be off in a minute. I’m due at the morgue.”

Ori made a disappointed noise, “And I went to all that trouble to find a reason to come up here…”

“You could have given me a little warning…”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

Dwalin chuckled, hand running down Ori’s side to squeeze his bottom, “Don’t doubt it’s a welcome one. I don’t even know your name…”

“It’s Ori.”

“Son of…?”

Ori pressed a kiss to Dwalin’s lips, “One question per visit now. I gotta keep a bit of mystery.”

Ori was already stepping back, out of Dwalin’s arms. Another knock came at the door, a firmer one which was almost definitely Kurik, come to remind him Oin was waiting on him. 

“Hey! Wait!” he grabbed Ori’s hand as he started to rewrap his scarf around his neck, “When will I see you again?”

Ori seemed to think for a moment, picking up his satchel from the chair he’d dropped it on, “There’s a tavern a few tunnels down from the Scrivener Hall, the Golden Quill. You know it?”

Dwalin nodded. He knew of it though he’d never darkened its door, it was popular among scribes, some civil servants (as the name suggested). It wasn’t the sort of place he’d ever been called on to break apart fights in, to put it one way. 

“I don’t mind a pint or two there after work on Fridays. You might see me there…”

Kurik opened the door, Ori slipped his hand out of Dwalin’s and was past Kurik before Dwalin could even say another word. Kurik’s eyes followed Ori as he made his way out the guardhouse, then looked back to Dwalin, one eyebrow travelling up her forehead.

Dwalin glowered at her, “What?”

“Nothing…nothing at all. Oin’s ready for us at the morgue is all.”

Dwalin looked down at his mug of coffee, barely half drunk. He picked up Rafra’s file and the stub of a pencil and shoved them both in Kurik’s hands. 

“You take notes this time.”

~*~*~

“The stabbing was post mortem.”

Oin stepped back from the examination table, Rafra’s body laid out in front of him. A sheet was pulled up to the dead boy’s neck…again, this time covering the long lines of stitches from Oin’s autopsy. The irony of this wasn’t lost on Dwalin. 

He shifted where he stood, “What makes you say that?”

“No blood in the lungs. He would have breathed some in if he’d been stabbed alive. No…” Oin paused to flick a match and light his pipe, waving Dwalin closer, “…see here, broken blood vessels in the eyes, I'd say the strangulation did it.”

Oin moved from where he was holding one eyelid open to grasp either side of Rafra’s head, tilting the skull back to show more of his neck, a thin dark line of flesh wrapping around it, stark against death white skin, “By some sort of garrotte unless my eyes deceive me.”

“You getting all this?” Dwalin turned to Kurik who nodded, “What kind of knife is he using?”

“Something small but long, some sort of dagger. From the width of the wounds no more than in inch wide but at least four inches deep.”

“Was he raped?”

Oin just shrugged, “It’s possible, there’s certainly evidence of recent sexual activity, but whether that’s your killer or just his regulars, I couldn’t tell you. There’s skin under his fingernails though, his hands are bruised and cut up as well…he didn’t go down easily.”

“He fought…” Dwalin said, moving the sheet over Rafra’s arm and looking at his battered, torn hands. The fingernail on his middle finger was torn right off, something Dwalin had missed when he’d first looked at the body. 

Rafra had fought. He’d wanted to live. 

“Anything else?”

Oin shifted uncomfortably, he took another breath of his pipe, “There’s one more thing…”

“Aye?”

“The lad was a bearer, Dwalin.”

The temperature of the room, already icy cool to help preserve the bodies, dropped another 10 degrees. Women were rare enough, men who bore children even rarer. The murder of either, the destruction of a life which could continue Mahal’s act of creation, was a taboo akin to the eating of dwarrow flesh. It had been despicable enough when the lass had been found dead, now a bearer as well?

Dwalin swore. He would catch this orc spawn if it was the last thing he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this fic is becoming a bit more Criminal Minds rather than CSI. ;) 
> 
> In that vein, fellow amateur criminal profilers: can anyone tell me what they think the killer's signature and modus operandi are yet? Bonus points if you guess what trophies he's taking from the bodies.


	5. The Slums

_He’s found one. And this one is perfect._

_Not a lass. Lasses are trouble. Lasses are what got him into this._

_No time to think about all that. He has to hurry. He has to be on time…_

_…because this one is perfect._

_Pewter rank. Pewter clips are always beautifully tooled and polished to a fine shine. A pewter clipped whore is usually set up fairly well; maybe in a small or midsized brothel, maybe working out of an apartment if they don’t like having to give a House Mother a cut, but usually off the streets._

_Safer._

_Harder to hunt._

_This one is pewter clipped and his hair is deep red, the shining metal stark and beautiful as it peeks out between his locks. He’s certain this one’s hair is natural, not like that nasty little tin clipped slut who stunk of lye and cum when he got close._

_He wasn’t perfect. He barely deserved his salvation._

_He knocks at the door and the pewter one answers quickly, gown tied hastily and slipping off one shoulder. He can see a slip of a black ink under the gown, crawling down the shoulder. No doubt a stag, maybe a line of cut gems falling down his back. Some tawdry scratching done no doubt by some other whore as an attempt to entice._

_Pathetic._

_“Ah, yer here early. Come on in, I won’t be a minute.”_

_The whore’s eyes are a deep brown. His beard is just starting to show signs of grey. He is already getting that worn look around the eyes of a tired and well used whore, but there is still a spark there, a little bit of life left in him._

_Perfect. Perfect._

_Inside now, sitting on the edge of the whore’s couch. Red and purple silk, the legs of the chair unpolished. He shifts a cushion, confirming it hides worn patches. He looks around as he waits._

_Silk and cheap showy gems. The whole place stinks of depravity. Sex, ale, foul acts. It’s disgusting._

_The pewter whore comes out, gives him a smile, “All ready for you now.”_

_He shines bright and brilliant amongst all the filth. This one would be grateful. This one would understand._

_This one is ready to be saved._

~*~*~

An anguished howl filled the humble room, Vefra doubling over as if in pain, almost sliding off the seat she sat on. Dwalin closed his eyes, Refra’s mother started to sob in earnest, pulling a pillow off the couch and holding it to her chest. 

“My baby…my baby boy…” she wailed, “What are we gonna do now?”

“Missus Vefra, I cannot imagine your suffering right now, but I can assure you the Guild will stand with you in this difficult time.” 

Dwalin growled softly and watched as the Whore’s Guild Guard Liason sat down beside Vefra on the couch. Mifras was his name, and he and Dwalin had become far too well acquainted with each other in recent months than either would have liked. Dwalin didn’t like Mifras to begin with, he was a born bureaucrat, almost obsessed with his forms and procedures, Dwalin would have been surprised if Mifras had had an independent thought not sanctioned by his superiors in thirty years.

The vast majority of Guild workers were ex-Whores themselves, but it was hard for Dwalin to imagine plain and stodgy old Mifras, with his grey hair and eyes, draped in fine silk and leaning out of some brothel window, waving clients up. That was perhaps what irked Dwalin the most about Mifras, he didn’t fit, he didn’t make sense in the Guild, and his reticence when it came to talking about his personal life only frustrated Dwalin further. 

Still, Mifras was here and he was comforting the grieving mother of poor Rafra, and for that Dwalin was grateful. 

A faint cry came form somewhere further back in the residence, Vefra looked up, more tears slipping down her cheeks and wetting her beard. 

“Oh Mahal…little Rov,” panic began to grow on the old woman’s face, she pulled at her hair and another sob escaped from her mouth.

“Who is Rov, Missus?” Kurik asked, setting a mug of tea down in front of Vefra. 

“His son,” she hiccoughed, “My grandson. Oh Mahal…he’s only 3…he won’t remember him, he won’t remember his Pa.”

Mifras patted Vefra on the shoulder, using the opportunity to tell her how she could apply for family payments from the Guild (to help with wee Rov’s lessons when he needed them). 

“The Guild looks after its own, Missus. I can assure you, I will ensure Rov will never know hardship because of your Rafra’s death.”

Vefra only sobbed more, the baby starting to cry in earnest from the other room. 

“Oh…I should get ‘im,” Vefra started to stand.

“I’ll check on ‘im for ye,” Dwalin stood quickly, “I’ll bring ‘im out to ye.”

“O-oh thank you, sir. He’s in ‘is crib in Rafra’s room…second door on the left.”

“It’s no trouble,” Dwalin moved down the hall, stopping briefly to whisper into Kurik’s ear, “I’m gonna check out the victim’s room. Ask her if anyone’s been givin’ the lad trouble lately, pushy client, if a relationship’s ended…ye know what ta do.”

Kurik gave a firm nod and took Dwalin’s spot on the threadbare couch. Down the hall, Dwalin opened the door Vefra had indicated, the crying inside increasing as he entered. It was a small room, messy, covered in all the fragments of Rafra’s life. Dwalin approached the crib and Rov’s cries quietened to whimpers as he looked up at the massive stranger. He tickled the little lad’s cheek, picking up a knitted toy piggy from the floor and giving it to the baby to play with while he looked around. 

Rafra had a single bed covered in faded blue sheets, the baby’s sheets were pale blue as well. He had a wardrobe and a vanity table with a mirror, both with lots of blue poking out of the draws, no doubt a favourite colour. Dwalin looked over the mess on top of the vanity, little pots of half empty rouge, a carefully stoppered bottle of lye for his hair placed right at the back of the table, out of reach of tiny curious hands, hair pieces, ties, a few fine scarves, small pieces of jewellery and some larger fake pieces for work. And of course, right in the centre a little enamel bowl full of polished tin clips, the marks of his trade. 

Dwalin sat down on the bed, on the side closest to the baby’s crib, the side Rafra most likely got out of every morning. Rov waved his piggy toy in his little fist to get Dwalin’s attention, then threw it on the floor. Dwalin bent to pick it up, only for Rov to repeat the action. 

“You play this with yer Pa, little lad?” Dwalin asked, bending down again, further this time as piggy had bounced under the bed, “Bet he loved that…”

He reached further, his back creaking a little at the strain and felt around for the soft pink toy. There was more mess under the bed and it took a while, Dwalin’s hand patting around blindly. He felt soft wool and he pulled. It had gotten stuck so he pulled again, harder this time. 

Piggy came out from under the bed, though only by chance, knocked out as Dwalin pulled his hand free. What he was holding though, what he had grabbed, was an old knitted scarf, rusty red in colour, moth eaten and dusty. It was wrapped around something, a small notebook revealed when Dwalin unwound the garment, dropping the scarf onto the floor. 

He opened the book, handwritten pages inside, dated entries. A diary…Dwalin had found Rafra’s diary. 

Rov whined from his spot, reaching out for his stuffed pig. Footsteps came down the hall and Dwalin quickly shoved the diary into the inner pocket of his coat, bending to pick up piggy from the floor and handing it to the babe just as the door opened. 

Mifras stood in the doorway, he looked at Dwalin standing in front of the crib. His thin lips pursed. 

“We were beginning to wonder if you had gotten lost…”

Mifras knew, or at least he suspected, but who was he to question the Captain of the Guard’s investigation techniques. 

Dwalin tried to smile back, it coming out more of a grimace, “Just got distracted with the wee laddie.”

Mifras stepped in and looked down at Rov, “They are cute at that age…”

He tried to tickle Rov’s cheek, as Dwalin had done, only for the baby’s face to crumble and tears to come. 

The Guildsman made a disgusted noise and stepped back, “Tch, children. Well, are you coming or not? His grandmother is asking for him.”

Dwalin picked up Rov and took him out to Vefra, who took him into her arms. Kurik was tucking her notebook and pencil back into her pocket. 

“We shall be off, Missus Vefra,” Kurik said, “We’ll be in contact if we need anything else from you.”

“And I will return tomorrow with the forms and documents I mentioned,” Mifras grasped the old woman’s forearm and bowed, as always faultlessly polite. 

Vefra looked up at Dwalin as he came closer to say his goodbyes. 

“Will ye catch him?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. 

“If I have to take me last breath doin’ so, I will Missus.”

She nodded, seemed to think for a moment, “And what will happen when ye do?”

Dwalin and Kurik shared a confused look over the woman’s head, “Then he will be subject to King’s justice, Miss-“

“It’s not enough…” Vefra said, interrupting, her voice firm, “A quick death is not enough.”

She looked right into Dwalin’s eyes, pinning him there in front of her in his place.

_“I want his blood.”_

Outside, Dwalin took a long sigh and rubbed at his forehead. Telling the family was the worst part of the job. He’d been a member of the guard for close on 70 years, it had never gotten easier. 

“Well…” Mifras adjusted his dull grey coat on his frame and turned to face Dwalin, “Another charming afternoon Captain. You had best catch this one quickly, we have been seeing far too much of each other as of recent.”

Dwalin grunted, not bothering to verbalize a response. 

“I will make my report to the Guild. I will no doubt see you later in the week for a full report on the progress of your investigation.”

“I’d be able ta make a whole lot more progress if me file requests with yer Guild moved a little quicker up the line.”

Mifras’ eyes hardened, “We value the privacy and security of our members a great deal, _Captain_. We cannot be handing out their personal files to every Tommas, Dicken and Harik who fills out a form! There are procedures in place for a reason, sir. ”

“Even when yer members are dyin’ on the streets?!” Dwalin finally snapped, “Yer precious procedures are doin’ a bloody good job at protectin’ yer members so far aren’t they?”

Mifras went quite red, the strongest emotional response Dwalin had ever seen from the Guildsman. He was silent some time before he spoke. 

“I will see you later in the week Captain. And if your file requests are answered I will provide them to you as soon as they are available.”

And with that Mifras left Dwalin and Kurik, making his way through the honeycomb of small households which made up this part of the Mountain, a poorer area, quite close to the Broadbeam slums. 

Dwalin could still hear Vefra’s muffled crying from inside her home. He closed his eyes for a moment, her words _“I want his blood”_ still ringing in his ears. Refra’s diary dug into his chest where it was hidden in his pocket, little Rov’s face swum in front of his vision. 

“Captain…” Kurik said softly beside him, “…Captain…you want to head back to the Guardhouse?”

He blinked, then nodded at her, “Aye. We’ll head back, not much else we can do here today.”


	6. The Great Library

Dwarven art of the Late Second Age presented an interesting challenge for those interested in restoration of the same. The Second Age had been a time of great prosperity of their people, the mines of Khazad-dum bringing forth great riches and the mix of cultures created by the influx of dwarrows fleeing the ruined cities of Belegost and Nogrod creating a golden age of art, literature and learning. The art of the time was known for its strong confident lines, the colours rich and bold, many of them created from mineral ores found only in the deepest mines of Moria. 

And it was there that Ori’s troubles started. His latest restoration was spotted throughout with large full colour illustrated plates showing the fall of Mount Gundabad; orcs overwhelming the Dwaven inhabitants, the warriors making their last stands against the vile host, the long trek of the refugees down the side of the Mountain in the depths of a cruel winter, being granted refuge in Khazad-dum; all of them required colours made from Moria minerals which were simply not to be found in the Lonely Mountain. 

Ori was faced with a choice. Either write off to the Libraries of Erid Luin and the Iron Hills and see if they had any of the minerals in question in their stores (which would definitely take months, if not the the better part of a year before Ori heard anything back) or see if he could work out a way to intensify the colours created by the ores he had access too. He had heard there were beetles which could be crushed and mixed with minerals to create the rich shade of red he needed for one illustration in particular. 

And so Ori stood at the top of a ladder in front of a tall shelf of books deep in the Great Library of Erebor, thumbing through a dusty volume: “Exotic Insects and Where to Find them.” On the ground beside the ladder were a pile of books on paint making and colour mixing. So engrossed was Ori in reading about the blood beetle that he didn’t realise he was being watched, that a pair of eyes had been following him since he had left his home that morning. 

Ori turned the page. The blood beetle spent most of the year underground as a fat little grub, only appearing in late summer to mate. Colonies were to be found around the city of Dale in the marshy areas close to the river…

The ladder Ori stood on shook violently, Ori gave a shriek and grabbed a hold, losing his grip on the book and dropping it to the floor. He looked down to see who had so rudely interrupted him, if it was that bloody Renn again…

“Nori!” Ori gave a little huff as he started his descent, “How many time do I have to tell you!? Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Is that any way to greet your favourite brother?” Nori gave one of his rakish grins, standing back to let Ori down. 

Ori sighed and shook his head, giving Nori a hug in greeting. 

“Where have you been? You haven't been home for dinner for days, Dori thinks you’ve taken up with someone.”

Nori gave a bark of a laugh, “Oh aye? That’ll be the day. Nah, you know what it’s like, Ori, work’s just busy. I got some idiot of a guard sniffin’ around one of my best snout’s family, makin’ all sorts of trouble. Mahal, they’re useless.”

Ori rolled his eyes, leaning down to pick up his dropped book and put it on the pile with the others. 

“They’re not all bad, you know…”

“What would you know about guards?” Nori asked, then seeing the way Ori refused to meet his eyes laughed again, “Oh ho! That how it is, huh? Is my baby brother gettin’ his leg over with some tattooed hardnose? Does he cuff ya?”

“Nori! That’s none o’ your business! Are ye here for a reason or just to be a pain? I got work to do.”

“Alrigh’, alrigh’! Listen, I just wanted to let ye know I might be in and out for the next couple of weeks, might not be home for dinner a lot. I don't want you or Dori to worry about me.”

“Might as well ask the sun not ta rise,” Ori said, referring to Dori’s propensity to worry, “But alrigh’. What’s happening that’s so important?”

Nori shifted, “Ah, ye know I can’t really talk about it. Just…just tell Dori to be careful, would ya? You too o’ course, but tell Dori. The Mountain…it’s not the place it used ta be…not what it was…”

Ori frowned, Nori was being odd…even for him. 

“Yeah, all right. I’ll tell him,” he placed his hand on Nori’s shoulder, “You be careful too.”

“Always.” Nori gave another grin, his moment of vulnerability passing, “Ye gonna see yer guard again, little brother?”

Ori fought a smile that appeared on his lips. He bent to pick up his stack of books. “Maybe…he might be coming down to the Quill on Friday. If he passes the test…well…maybe again after that too…”

He turned back towards Nori, only to find the space he had previously occupied empty. Ori let out a sigh. Bloody Nori. Always popping in and out at a moment’s notice, using that bloody job of his as an excuse. Ori wasn’t even entirely sure what it was Nori actually did, all he knew was that his older brother worked under the Crown Prince. When pressed on the matter all Nori would say was he worked ‘for the safety of the Mountain’, whatever that bloody meant. It sounded like what the Guard did to Ori, but Nori certainly had a very poor view of them…

Ori shifted his pile of books to one arm, using the other to push his braids out of his eyes. The exact nature of Nori’s work was probably not Ori’s business in any case and he didn’t have time to think about it today, not when the noble blood beetle called his name…

~*~*~

It was another lively night at the Pearl, which was what Dori always liked to see. Gurret and Honir were back at work, for which he was very grateful, as His Royal Highness Prince Fili, third in line for the throne, had just arrived (without making a booking, _as usual_ ) with his usual retinue of friends and acquaintances, both real and politically important. 

After Fili had announced his arrival, barging through the doors, grabbing Torof and throwing him over his knee to pretend to spank him, all to Torof’s delighted shrieks; Dori had ordered Nagram, their doorsman, to lock the doors. They would make more than enough from the Prince’s custom tonight, they would need no other customers. 

He sent nervous little Sigfa with his wooden apprentice’s clips down to the cellar to bring up a barrel of their finest wine and then one of their finest ale, pouring the wine into a pitcher and arranging cups on a tray. 

“Now, off you go dear…oh! Let me just fix your hair there…ah lovely. Now, you go in there and make sure you pour Fili his cup first, give him a little bow like I taught you and a pretty smile. Show me your smile…”

Sigfa gave a small weak smile, his nerves showing. Dori sighed internally but didn’t let it show, the poor dear needed encouragement. 

“Perfect! Off you go now, you’ll do fine.” 

With any luck, Fili would be too distracted by Torof to notice a terrified apprentice spilling wine all over the place. 

Dori took a few moments to check himself in the mirror, pulling his robe slightly off one shoulder, running a hand over his hair, then adding a few more bangles to his wrists, before he left for the parlour. 

The Pearl had three levels, two at street level and a cellar below. The second level was all bedrooms, the cellar held a small bathhouse as well as Dori’s collection of wine and ale for the guests. The ground floor was dominated by a large parlour full of overstuffed chairs and lounges, piles of cushions, rich warm shades of pink and red and lush fabrics covering every surface. It was opulent and sensual, a first tiny taste of what was offered within the Pink Pearl’s walls. There were a few other smaller rooms for private parties as well, not to mention a small kitchen where the lads could make meals for themselves between clients. 

Dori came down the stairs and was greeted by the site of Torof perched on Fili’s lap, arms around the Prince’s neck, Fili with his hand firmly grasping Torof’s buttocks. He wasn’t surprised, Torof had been Fili’s favourite for about a year now, Dori rather suspected that the money for Torof’s new silver clips and that lovely emerald outfit he was wearing had been slipped to him from the Prince. 

Beside Fili were some friends of the Prince's Dori recognised, Dori’s only gold clipped worker, Gurrit bringing them mugs of ale and sitting between them, letting the younger one pinch his bottom. Over in the corner a high ranking lord was already kissing pretty Reknar’s neck, fingers tangling in his blonde hair. Honir with his fire red hair and bright blue eyes was sitting with young Mumaise between two high ranking dwarrows from the Jewel Cutter’s Guild. Everyone was entertained, everyone was drinking…yes…everything was going very well indeed. 

“Dori! Dori, come sit over here!” Fili called from his couch, “I have someone here I want you to meet…”

Dori gave his most charming smile and bowed his head to Fili, walking over to join him on the couch. 

“Over here...” Fili shifted Torof on his lap, eliciting a squeal from the younger prostitute, “I’d like you to meet my little brother, Kili…”

Kili had been half hidden behind Torof but now Dori could see him. He didn’t look at day over 75, and with just a glance Dori could see how much the lad resembled his uncle, Crown Prince Thorin, though he seemed to have missed that fine Durin nose that ran in his family. 

“Now your highness, you must know you are not above a scolding if you are bringing dwarrows not yet of age into my establishment,” Dori said with a playful tone, sitting in the vacant seat on the lounge next to young Kili. 

“How could you even think such a thing, Mother Dori!? You’ve cut me to the heart. You needn’t worry, today is Kili’s 77th nameday. Past his majority and then some.”

“Well, in that case I am at your service, your highness,” Dori bowed his head at Kili, giving the lad a smile. 

Kili nodded his head in return and mumbled a response. The poor lad was clearly nervous, not quite knowing where to look with all the supple, barely covered dwarrow flesh surrounding him. Dori poured him a drink and tried to engage him in conversation but got little further than general comments about the weather. 

“Kili…your highness…” one of the Guildsmen called from where he was sitting between Mumaise and Honir, “We need a fifth for cards. Join us!”

Kili seemed to brighten at that, “As long as I get to deal!”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way. And Mother Dori, bring your apprentice back, let’s have a little music.”

“Yes!” Fili crowed, “We’re celebrating after all!”

Dori bowed his head and stood to tell Sigfa to fetch his lute to play for the party. As soon as the apprentice was set up, and Reknar had agreed to sing to accompany him, Dori returned to his seat by Prince Fili, Kili now occupied by the card game. 

“Little dove, would you mind topping me up?” Fili asked Torof, holding his cup up. 

“Of course not, your highness.” Torof stood, giving a little giggle when Fili patted his bottom. 

Fili leant in closer to Dori as soon as Torof was gone, speaking in a low voice, “I have a request to make of you, Mother Dori…”

“Oh aye?”

“Mmm hmm. I’d like you to take care of Keel tonight.”

Dori raised his eyebrows, “Oh? He’s still quite young. Would your uncle and great- grandfather approve of such a thing your highness?”

“I was little older when Uncle bought me to you, if you recall. And great grandfather Thror was the one who suggested it,” Fili pulled himself up in his seat, puffing out his cheeks and doing quite a passable impression of the King, _“It is high time the young lad had a thorough tumble!”_ He stroked his beard as Dori had often seen the King doing during proclamations, making Dori chuckle, _“Take him down to the Pearl, get a fine fat whore seated on him and show him a little of the real world! People are starting to talk!”_

Dori threw back his head and laughed then, “Oh dear me! Are you sure he wouldn’t prefer someone a little younger? Mumaise has a lot of energy…or Reknar perhaps, he is very popular…”

Fili shrugged, “If he shows an interest I have no objection. My brother though…he’s my mother’s youngest you understand, he’s been guarded from a lot…If matters are left to him nothing will happen. He needs a firm guiding hand.”

“You would know better than I, your highness,” Dori inclined his head as Torof came back, holding a goblet of rich red wine out to Fili. 

Fili stood as he took the goblet, slinging an arm around Torof’s waist and pulling him in closer, “I leave the matter in your capable hands, Mother Dori. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Torof and I have some business of our own to attend to.”

Torof squealed with laughter as Fili pulled him out of the room. Dori took a sip of his wine and then stood himself, walking over to Reknar, asking him to sing a raunchy and very popular ballard next, then moved over to the card game, pulling up a seat at the card table next to Kili and giving the young lad a charming smile. 

He leant in close, resting an arm on Kili’s shoulder, whispered so his lips brushed against the soft shell of the Prince’s ear.

“Who’s winning?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Nori, you know more than you're letting on. 
> 
> Just for reference, Dori has five prostitutes and an apprentice working under him at the Pearl currently. The House comfortably supports about 7 workers, Dori used to have six fully fledged whores in the House but one of them has recently left the Pearl to work independently so he's hired a new apprentice to train up. The Pearl's prostitutes under Dori, in order of rank are: Gurrit (gold clips), Honir (silver), Torof (also silver), Reknar (bronze), Mumaise (pewter) and Sigfa (wood). The Pearl is a very classy establishment so the prostitutes working there tend to be at the higher end of the ranking and price scale.


End file.
